And the hard and trampled sod,
Whence his angry soul ascended
To the judgment-seat of God!
Winding-sheet we cannot give him--
Seek no mantle for the dead,
Save the cold and spotless covering
Showered from heaven upon his head.
Leave his broadsword, as we found it,
Bent and broken with the blow,
That, before he died, avenged him
On the foremost of the foe.
Leave the blood upon his bosom--
Wash not off that sacred stain:
Let it stiffen on the tartan,
Let his wounds unclosed remain,
Till the day when he shall show them
At the throne of God on high,
When the murderer and the murdered
Meet before their Judge's eye!

Nay--ye should not weep, my children!
Leave it to the faint and weak;
Sobs are but a woman's weapon--
Tears befit a maiden's cheek.
Weep not, children of Macdonald!
Weep not thou, his orphan heir--
Not in shame, but stainless honour,
Lies thy slaughtered father there.
Weep not--but when years are over,
And thine arm is strong and sure,